You stare at the glowing phone on the kitchen table as if the little rectangle has opened a hole in the floor beneath you.
“Did she sign?”
Three words. So ordinary, so cold, so impossible to misunderstand.
Your fingers hover over the screen, but you do not touch it yet. Rodrigo is still in the shower, humming softly behind the closed bathroom door, like a man who has nothing to hide, like a man who did not just marry you with a secret waiting inside his pocket.
The phone lights up again.
This time the message says: “Don’t let her sleep too long before fixing it. Teresa says tonight is best.”
Your heart stops so sharply that for one second you forget how to breathe.
Teresa.
His mother.
The elegant woman who smiled at your wedding with lips that never warmed. The woman who had adjusted Rodrigo’s tie before the ceremony and whispered something in his ear while looking straight at you.
The shower keeps running.
You pick up the phone.
It asks for a passcode, but you already know it. Rodrigo used your birthday for everything because he said it proved how much he loved you. Now that same little romantic detail feels like a rope he forgot to hide.
The phone unlocks.
You open the messages.
The contact name is not saved. Just a number. But above the last messages, there are older ones, enough to make your stomach twist.
“Make sure she drinks the tea after dinner.”
“Not too much. We only need weakness at first.”
“If she signs, everything transfers cleanly after the accident.”
Accident.
The word crawls through you.
You hear the shower turn off.
Panic hits you like a slap.
You lock the phone, place it exactly where it was, and step back so fast your hip bumps the kitchen counter. A glass trembles beside you, the tiny sound exploding in the silence.
Rodrigo opens the bathroom door wearing a robe, his hair wet, his face soft and newly married.
“There you are,” he says.
You force your mouth into something like a smile.
He studies you.
Not lovingly. Not the way a husband should look at his wife hours after promising forever. He studies you like a man checking whether a locked drawer has been opened.
“You look pale,” he says.
“I’m tired.”
“Big day.”
He walks closer and brushes your cheek with his knuckles. His touch used to make you feel chosen. Now it feels like a gloved hand measuring your temperature before deciding how deep to cut.
“I’ll make you tea,” he says.
And there it is.
The sentence from the message.
You want to scream. You want to run barefoot into the hallway, pound on every neighbor’s door, call your mother, call the police, call the strange woman from the Registro Civil whose warning now echoes like a bell inside your skull.
But Rodrigo is standing between you and the door.
So you do the only thing your terror allows.
You nod.
“That sounds nice,” you whisper.
His smile returns.
“Chamomile. Your favorite.”
He turns toward the cabinet.
The moment his back is to you, you glance toward the front door. The keys are in a ceramic bowl beside it. Your purse is on the couch. Your phone is inside your purse.
Too far.
Rodrigo fills the kettle slowly, calmly, as if this is a normal wedding night. The apartment is still filled with white flowers from the small reception, their sweet smell suddenly sickening.
You remember the woman’s hand gripping yours outside the Registro.
If today he gives you a paper to sign, don’t sign it.
She knew.
Somehow, she knew.
Rodrigo places a mug in front of you.
The tea is pale gold. Steam rises in soft spirals.
He watches you too closely.
“Drink,” he says.
The word is gentle, but the command underneath is naked.
You wrap both hands around the mug, pretending your fingers are cold. Your mind races, searching for a way out, any way out.
Then salvation arrives as a sound.
Your phone rings from inside your purse.
Rodrigo’s eyes flick to it.
“Leave it.”
“It might be my mom.”
“She can wait.”
Your pulse hammers.
The phone rings again.
You stand before he can stop you.
“She gets anxious,” you say, forcing a little laugh. “You know how she is.”
His expression hardens for half a second.
